


where ghosts go

by Ink_Beneath_Her_Fingernails



Series: bury your heroes [2]
Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Blanket Permission, Everyone Has Issues, Government Experimentation, Human Experimentation, Loss of Trust, Minor Lucius "Frozone" Best/Honey Best, Origin Story, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Podfic Welcome, Pre-Canon, Propaganda, Team Bonding, Trust Issues, World War II, and if you think they're raising three superpowered children on their own, and once again Issues™, but dicker is trying so hard i swear, but his heart was in the right place??, he just wants to keep them all safe and alive, i mean he ain't very good at it and he lowkey ruined all their lives, kind of, look all i'm sayin is that helen and bob are actual disasters, oh trust me all of the old guard is gonna be there, once again we're back at it with:, rick dicker is probably the sole reason for this man's trust issues, they're his kids okay he's adopted them, vaguely implied possible Lucius/Bob/Helen and/or Lucius/Helen/Bob/Honey? maybe so, when they can barely function as adults, y'all are really sleeping on the timeline implications of these movies being set in the 60s, you're wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26217898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink_Beneath_Her_Fingernails/pseuds/Ink_Beneath_Her_Fingernails
Summary: All of the others had said yes. All of the others had obeyed, agreed, like good soldiers would.All of the others weren’t quite themselves anymore.(Or: How Supers came to be, and learning to live with the consequences, as told through the eyes of Lucius Best.)
Relationships: Honey Best & Lucius "Frozone" Best, Lucius "Frozone" Best & Bob "Mr. Incredible" Parr, Lucius "Frozone" Best & Helen "Elastigirl" Parr, Lucius "Frozone" Best & Rick Dicker, Lucius "Frozone" Best & Violet Parr
Series: bury your heroes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903894
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	where ghosts go

**Author's Note:**

> **TW:** drinking, underage drinking, mind control (sort of... the characters are still lucid, can think for themselves and tell that something is very wrong, but are unable to stop themselves from doing what they're told), mentioned/discussed/heavily implied & briefly depicted human experimentation, blood, vomiting, period-typical racism, period-typical sexism, whitewashing (as in, a large portion of the characters are not white, but are later depicted in a form of media as such, among other changes)
> 
> **Please let me know if there are any other warnings you think I should tag.**

i. Lucius has been around a long time.

He'd been born on the cusp of the second decade of the twentieth century—1919, in the dead of winter.

When World War II came around, he'd enlisted, drawn the right kind of attention in training and then the wrong kind, until he's approached by a man who offers him a position in what seems to be the one division in the army that doesn't care about your race or gender or native language. Unsurprisingly, it's not one he was even aware existed.

All these years later, and he still can't quite decide if accepting that offer was a mistake or not.

ii. The barracks at the agency—because that's what they call it, _the_ _agency_ , not the base—are like none he's ever seen before.

The ceilings are twenty feet high, their bedframes and the doors made of reinforced steel with sheets and pillowcases that, after a rather alarming incident on his second night there, they find out are fireproof, and windows made of bulletproof glass. But perhaps the most shocking of all, is that it houses _everyone_.

When he first walks in and sees a white woman sitting on a cot and lacing up a pair of combat boots, he walks straight back out to find the agent (because he'd called himself an agent, not a soldier or an officer) who'd shown him there to let him know that there'd been a mistake of some sort.

The man—Dicker was his name, he thinks—gives him a flat, unreadable look, and tells him that there hasn't been any mistake at all, and all the soldiers on this base bunk in the same room.

And.

Well.

That's something.

It's even a _good_ something.

His cot is across from a white man named Bob and between a Hispanic woman named Vali and the far wall, which for once is not because of things he cannot control like the color of his skin, but simply because he was one of the last to be brought in, and all the other cots were taken already.

Their uniforms are strange, too—hardly could be called _uniforms_ at all. Off-white, short sleeve shirts that have a greenish tint to them, army green cargo pants, a dark purple belt, and yellow wrist bands are, apparently, as official as they get.

They start training as soon as everybody's there, and it's like nothing he's ever been through before.

They're all trained in a dozen different firearms that he's fairly certain aren't standard issue, hand-to-hand combat beyond what he assumes they would expect in the military, conditioning and strength and endurance training to the high heavens, driving and piloting just about any vehicle they could possibly run across, identifying poisons, picking locks, stealth training, the list doesn't seem to end and he can't make any sense of it.

The only person they have contact with besides each other is Dicker.

Lucius hasn't been in the military very long, but he's pretty sure that this isn't how any regular unit is supposed to operate.

Within three weeks, four people are transferred—Melvin, whose pain days were getting so bad and frequent that he couldn't participate in training anymore and may end up being sent home entirely, and some prick named Rufus, after he'd made some snide comment after their battle tactics class about Anna-Mae, aimed primarily about her 'place in society' and her skin color, and the only reason Lucius hadn't decked the guy then and there was because Bob had, and because as soon as the rest of the unit heard, he was subjected to much worse by Anna-Mae herself and got the cold-shoulder by everyone else (they're the good sort, here, Lucius is surprised to find—better than good, even), until it had somehow gotten back to Dicker who had booted him for that he 'places the luxury of prejudice above the threat of war' and that he 'obviously cannot bring himself to work properly alongside others due to things beyond merit or personality. Then there was Jeanine, who Dicker (or whoever his superior officer is) decided wasn't quite as fit for the program as they'd originally thought (and they still haven't been told what exactly 'the program' even _is_ ), and Leon, who'd gotten cold feet in the midst of everything being thrust upon them and belatedly retracted his acceptance of the offer.

When it becomes clear who was there to stay, and that no one else is coming to replace those who left or otherwise add to their numbers, they close ranks accordingly, and become friends out of sheer necessity.

He does genuinely like them, though.

So there they are, two months in, sprawled across four cots and the space between them, passing around a bottle of booze, because for some reason they've had a light day and are getting a late start tomorrow, when somebody finally grows a pair and asks the same question everyone's been wondering for weeks.

"If nobody else is going to ask," Gail drawls, her arms draped over her knees, "I will. What do you think they're training us for? Why are we here?"

Nobody really seems to have an answer for her.

"Did any of you notice," Santi starts slowly after a minute, "that we don't have a unit name? And we're not part of any official branch of the military. We're not army, not navy, not air force, not even reserves. I asked Dicker."

"I don't think I've heard anything about the military teaching people about poisons or picking locks, especially when half of them are new recruits," Anca pitches in, tugging on one of her braids nervously.

"Oh, it definitely hasn't before," Mihai mutters, taking another sip of vodka.

"And mixed barracks?" Scott scratches at his eyebrow as he speaks. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but back in boot camp, it definitely wasn't like this."

Helen purses her lips and pins them all with that serious, intense gaze of hers.

"So we agree, then? This isn't normal. They're not trying to turn us into regular soldiers."

There's another long, silent moment, and then Simon says, very quietly, "No. No, I don't suppose they are."

Nobody speaks for the rest of the night, and the next morning, when they all wake up for their weighted run, nobody says anything to Dicker, but he gives them a long, sad look, and says, "I'm sorry," anyway.

"What for?" Helen asks.

He just gives her another one of those long, long looks, and says, "For convincing all of you to sign up for this," before turning away and leaving them to get moving.

It's the only real apology they ever get from him.

iii. They’ve been there for six months when it starts.

It’s four am, and they’ve all just made their way to the front of the base to start their morning run before breakfast, when Dicker comes out.

He looks them all over with calculating eyes, and they shoot him nervous glances as they file out, wondering what’s happening.

None of them are brave enough ( _stupid_ enough) to try to ask.

Before they can quite get moving, Dicker stops them.

“Go for your run,” he says, “and then come back and eat. You’ll have the day off after.”

And _that_ —that stops them in their tracks.

A day off?

That’s not a thing that happens.

Sure, there are days where their workload might be just a little bit lighter, but they _are_ , in one way or another, preparing for a war, after all.

“What?” Lucius blurts, because no one else will, and it just kind of slips out, anyway.

Dicker turns to him, with that infuriatingly blank look on his face, and stares for a second, like he’s trying to make up his mind about something.

“Go for your run,” he repeats. “And then come back and eat. There will be no other classes or training today.”

And then he just—leaves.

iv. The next day, they do their usual routine—get up, get ready, clean their bunk space, make their beds, go for their run, eat breakfast.

And halfway through breakfast, there’s yet another break from the norm, when Dicker walks into the tiny mess hall, straight up to Scott.

“Scott,” he says, because he’s weird like that—knows all their names and uses them regularly, no ranks or last names.

Scott goes stiller than a statue and the rest of them just stop and stare at the interaction unfolding before them.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Report to my office when you’re finished eating.”

Scott blinks, and Lucius can _see_ his mind moving, trying to think through everything he’s done and figure out what could have provoked a personal reprimand and coming up blank.

“Uh—of course, Sir.”

And then Dicker turns around and walks out of the hall, like that’s that and nothing out of the ordinary’s happened.

Dicker, they will all come to learn, is an extraordinary actor.

v. Scott goes to see Dicker after breakfast, and they go to their classes and training manned by an unfamiliar instructor, and none of them see either of the men for the rest of the day.

In fact, none of them see either of them for the next _three_ days.

And, on the third day, when they’re all starting to settle down for the night, an uneasy tension filling the room, the door creaks open.

They all freeze, and Scott stumbles in, Dicker standing half a step behind him, as cool and collected as ever.

And Scott—holy hell, Scott’s a _wreck_.

His skin is so pale Lucius thinks he could see right through him if the lights were just a little brighter. Large, dark bags have taken up residence under his eyes, the insides of his arms are riddled with mottled bruises, he’s breathing like he’s just tried to take on their morning run for the first time at a full sprint, and he’s covered in a layer of sweat that Lucius can see all the way from the other side of the room. His eyes are terrifyingly unfocused as he trips forward like he was thrown threw the door, barely catching himself before he falls, staring at the ground with a lost, almost scared sort of look that Lucius really doesn’t want to hear the cause of.

“Good job, Scott,” Dicker says, his voice so _calm_ , so _even_ , like it’s the first night again and he’s just explaining the rules to them, like he hasn’t just stolen one of them away for days and delivered him back in pieces.

Scott doesn’t respond. His hands are shaking.

Dicker looks around at them, face as unreadable as always, and for the first time, Lucius wants to _punch_ him. He wants to make him _hurt_. He wants to make him do _something_ , _anything_ , to have some sort of _emotion_ , to _feel_ something, to just be _human_ for _once_.

Then he leaves, like he always does, and the door swings shut, leaving a deathly silent room behind him, Scott not moving from where he stands.

He won’t look any of them in the eye.

vi. They go through their morning routine without uttering a word.

It’s hard to think about doing that, when Scott’s no better now than he was last night.

Dicker comes in halfway through breakfast again, and this time, they are all on guard, and Scott watches him with something like fear in his eyes.

“Anca,” he says to the woman he’s approached.

She swallows hard, and meets his gaze.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Report to my office when you’re finished eating.”

Anca’s lips draw into a tight line, and there’s a short, tense silence.

“...Of course, Sir.”

When Dicker leaves the mess hall, Scott watches the door close, looks at Anca with wide eyes, leans over the side of the table, and vomits.

Anca doesn’t come to class that day.

vii. The day after Anca disappears, everyone is more high strung than they’ve been since they arrived on the base, and Bob seems to have taken it upon himself to try to get everyone to lighten up a little.

So, when he sneaks up behind Lucius at lunch and grabs his shoulders in an attempt to scare him, Lucius isn't exactly caught off guard, but he still can’t quite keep from flinching, and _that_ , of course, startles Scott, who’s sitting right next to him.

It startles him so bad, in fact, that he nearly jumps out of his seat, and whips around to face the two of them, hands flung up as if ready to defend himself.

And when he does, a large gust of wind goes with him, so strong that Lucius is sent sprawling into Tristan on his other side, and Bob, who's caught up in the tail end of it and has no buffer to stop him, is not quite so lucky.

Lucius careens into Tristan, and Bob goes flying and hits the wall with a solid thud and a sharp gasp of pain.

Lucius careens into Tristan, and Bob goes flying, and after the fact the entire hall goes utterly still and silent in a manner that is quickly becoming far too familiar, and stares at Scott, who never even _touched_ them.

Scott just stares at Bob, and then at his hands, his eyes wide with undisguised horror, even worse than any he’s shown since Dicker brought him back.

“Oh,” he says, and his voice is both very thick and very fragile. “Oh,” he says, and there’s something unspeakably like _understanding_ there. “Oh,” he says, like this makes _sense_ , like it’s just a piece of the puzzle that was missing and now he _gets it_ , like it answers all his questions, like it explains _everything_ and he doesn’t know why he didn’t see it _sooner_.

“Oh,” he says, only it’s more of a whisper this time, and he sounds like he doesn’t know if he’s going to scream or cry or laugh hysterically or throw up again or some combination thereof.

Bob is still laying on the floor, at the base of the wall where he slid down after the initial contact, and when his hand slowly goes to touch the back of his head, his own wide eyes don’t move from Scott once.

His fingers come away red.

viii. Dicker comes in a little later than he has been, and approaches Lon’Yea this time.

It takes him a moment to think of why, before he realizes that he usually comes in when they were all at least halfway done with their food, and he must’ve waited a little longer since she always shuffles in a little late from the first of her five daily prayers, because the sun always rises just after they wrap up their morning meal.

After breakfast, Lon'Yea is gone.

Lucius fights back the snarl that his mouth wants to curl into, and wonders to himself if, during whatever he had in store for her, Dicker would allow Lon'Yea time to pray those five times a day.

The first night, he passes her bunk on the way to his own, catches sight of her compass lying on her pillow, and purses his lips.

He doubts Dicker would care enough to bring it to her. (The proof is right there.)

ix. It takes them longer to find out what’s changed with Honey than it does for anyone else.

Without even meaning to, they tiptoe around her and likewise, she walks on eggshells around them.

No sudden movements, no pranks or sneaking up on her, always making sure she’s aware of when they enter a room so as not to startle her, cop-outs and hesitation in training so the amount of times and the force that she has to touch them with is kept to a minimum.

No one is willing to risk anything until they know for sure what she can do and how she does it.

All of them are aware of it, but none of them say anything about it.

A few days go by, and surprisingly enough, Dicker doesn’t take anyone new at breakfast, just stands there in the back of the room, the closest thing Lucius has ever seen to a frown on him deepening with each day that passes without Honey’s… oddity making itself known. He even comes back to oversee and lead their lessons and training, paying special attention to the young woman who’s beginning to seem more and more like she’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

The change of routine in all this only serves to exacerbate everyone’s uneasiness.

“Maybe you broke the curse,” Bob jokes at lunch one day.

Honey rolls her eyes so hard Lucius is half-sure they’ll get stuck, and gives her food a particularly vicious stab. “Oh, shut up, Bob.”

Instantaneously, Bob’s mouth clicks shut, and he looks at her with wide eyes.

Lucius thinks that he needs to learn to read the room a little better if he was that surprised by the amount of venom in her voice.

“Wow, you actually got him to stop talking,” Mihai muses. “You’ll have to teach me how to do that sometime.”

A few scattered chuckles break out, and that’s the end of it.

Except, it isn’t.

“Hey, Bob, can you walk me through that throw again?” Scott asks during training.

Bob looks at him, very seriously, and gestures towards his throat.

It takes a second, but then everyone remembers what happened at lunch.

Reminiscent of Honey earlier, he rolls his eyes, and then crossed his arms.

“Oh. Right, Honey told you to shut up, so you’re not talking, I get it. Very funny. Seriously, just explain the move to me, she won’t care.”

Bob shakes his head a little and gestures more frantically towards his throat.

Lucius frowns, and notices that Scott’s doing the same thing.

“Fine. If you’re that committed, I’ll just get Tristan to help me out.

The blonde walks away in a huff, a murmur of _asshole_ left in his wake, and Bob looks almost panicked.

Lucius’ frown deepens.

Sometimes, he knows, Bob can take his jokes a little too far, not really know when to stop. Interfering with someone else’s training when they obviously aren’t on board with it and went to him for help in the first place is a bit of a dick move, though, even for him. He should know that, and if he’s scared he upset Scott, then he should just suck it up, stop his little joke, and apologize.

It’s not even that funny.

Except, Bob doesn’t apologize, and he doesn’t stop.

For two days, he doesn’t say a word to any of them, only seeming to get more and more frantic, and honestly, his antics are kind of starting to piss everyone off a little.

“Must be a good book,” Simon mutters sarcastically when Bob opts to read instead of playing cards with the rest of them before bed.

Bob would never pass up a game of cards, and yet, he hadn’t even deigned to actually answer them when asked.

“You know,” Honey drawls from where she’s writing in a journal in her own bed, an undercurrent of anger in her words. “You can stop giving us the silent treatment anytime, now.”

And just like that, Bob shoots up like someone attached a string to his forehead and _yanked_ , book falling from his hands and over the side of his bunk.

Giving no sign that he even realizes that everyone is staring at him in surprise and confusion, he just swallows hard, and says, “Can I?”

His voice is rough from disuse, but when the sound tumbles out he actually chokes on a sob of what seems to be relief, burying his head in his hands.

“...Bob?” Lucius is the one to breach the awkward tension in the air. “What’s…?” And he can’t even really finish the question, doesn’t know where to start or what to ask.

It seems to do the trick anyway, though, because Bob looks up, eyes like saucers and gaze only for Honey, and says, “I couldn’t speak.”

He cuts them off before any of them can even begin to show their annoyance or frustration at the complete non-answer.

“No,” he insists, leaning forward. The expression on his face is earnest and intense, and his voice is as serious as a tombstone, all of it as if he’s trying his hardest to press the importance of this upon them. “Really, I couldn’t talk. You told me to shut up, and I—I had an answer all lined up and everything, but I literally _couldn’t use it_. I’ve been trying to explain it to you, but I _couldn’t_.”

“That’s impossible,” she answers sharply.

The look he gives her is terribly grave. “Three weeks ago, so was moving things with your mind and flying without technology.”

The answering silence is deafening.

Because that—that makes _sense_.

Which means—

“Honey,” Lucius swallows, and he can’t help it when his words come out in a whisper. “Tell one of us to do something.”

She swallows, too, like she knows what they’re getting at and is desperately hoping that they’re _wrong_.

“Santi,” she turns to the man in question, hesitantly. “Can—you said you could dance swing. Show us.”

Santi snorts, but even as he tells her “Not even if you paid me,” he’s setting down his cards and getting to his feet, and then he’s dancing along to a tune that none of them can hear, lindy-hop in every movement, though Lucius has no idea where he would’ve learned it because the style has barely been around for a decade and he’s not even from the States, where it started.

His eyes widen.

“ _Stop,_ ” he hisses, and then he’s looking between her and his body frantically. “I can’t— _make it stop_ ,” and that last bit is an order, but one Honey heeds.

“Stop dancing,” she says, and he does, breathing a sigh of relief and looking shaken. She licks her lips, and then tacks on, hesitantly, “...for now.”

And—yeah. Better safe than sorry, Lucius guesses. They barely even knew that this was a thing, much less how it worked or how to control it. If Honey had just told him to stop dancing period, then would he ever be able to again?

Lucius does not at all like the line of questioning that thought opens up.

For a long, long time, no one says a word, just looking at Honey, who’s looking at Santi like he’s a fucking ghost.

“Well,” Anca’s drawl breaks the silence, voice wry but nothing funny about it, “don’t you just have a voice like honey?”

Honey leans over the side of her bunk and loses her dinner.

x. Lucius is expecting it.

Of _course_ he’s expecting it.

Ever since that day that seemed so long ago, when Scott had been up and taken from them before they even realized it and brought with him a whirlwind of horror and confusion upon his return, he had, in the very back of his mind, been preparing for it, at least.

When that little incident happened again, the suspicion only strengthened.

When it happened a third time, he’d mentally re-labeled it as a pattern instead, and known that eventually, he would be a part of that pattern.

And so he watched, as one by one, his unit-mates were taken away and returned fundamentally changed, leaving odd happenings in their wake that could not quite be written off as coincidences, until he was the last one left.

So he’s not surprised, then, when Dicker opens the door to the mess hall, one more time, and this time, makes his way towards him.

No, he is not surprised, but he finds that that does not make him dread it any less.

The others watch the man move across the floor with weary eyes and a silence that seems to have grown thicker and thicker with every time they’ve had to watch this scene play out (every time one more of them came back knowing what was about to happen).

“Lucius,” he says, voice level, and Lucius clenches his jaw.

“Yes, Sir?” He asks, even though he already knows what the response is going to be, and it takes everything in him to keep from spitting the words at the man.

“Report to my office when you’re finished eating,” Dicker says, like always, that predictable, horrible line that he has grown to _loathe_ hearing come from the man’s mouth.

Lucius works his jaw for a moment, considering, when it seems like the man is waiting for an answer.

He could give him one, he thinks. He could give him one _hell_ of an answer.

All of the others had said yes. All of the others had obeyed, agreed, like good soldiers would.

All of the others weren’t quite themselves anymore.

What would happen, then, if he said no?

Would it change anything, if he refused?

Beside him, Santi eyes him anxiously, as if prompting him to _hurry up and answer before something happens_. Bob doesn’t take his eyes off Dicker and starts to claw at his own thigh a little beneath the table. He’s been doing that a lot, lately.

He didn’t do it before.

Lucius could refuse. He could certainly try.

He wonders what Dicker would do if he did.

Would he order the others to _bring_ him to the office, by force if necessary? Would he find other people to do it, people who hadn’t been through whatever this was, didn’t know him, wouldn’t sympathize? Would this be something that would be grounds for a court-martial?

Or would he simply be transferred away, quickly and quietly, to another unit, another base, another branch? Somewhere where the barracks would be segregated? Somewhere where women still weren’t allowed to serve? Somewhere there would be dozens and dozens of people, all of them knowing each other but not really _knowing_ each other and certainly not _caring_ for each other? Somewhere where the uniform and dress code were stricter, the rules harsher? Somewhere where they did not train to identify obscure poisons, and did not learn how to kill a man six different ways with anything they could get their hands on, and did not come to know how to analyze a battlefield in seconds, and were not taught how to seamlessly shed their skin and become a different person?

Somewhere where he couldn’t keep an eye on the others?

That—that can’t happen.

If he gets transferred or discharged or goes to jail, that _will_ happen. He can’t guarantee that either of those _won’t_ if he doesn’t comply.

Honey gives a little jerk, kicking at him sharply under the table, her lips pursed in apprehension.

These people—they are like nothing he’s ever known before. He tries to remember what his life was like before he met them, less than a year back, but he can’t. He tries to picture what a future without them would be like, and the only word for it is _sad_.

So instead he tries to picture a future in which he says _yes_ , and falls apart a little himself, and stays with them.

This is a future where he will never be the same, most likely—the others haven’t said quite what happens, what it feels like, won’t, can’t, but it’s easy enough to see that there is no going back for any of them. This is a future where those strange things that have been happening with the others will start to happen to _him_. This is a future where he has no control over what happens, where the only path forward is one that screams _danger_ and _uncertainty_.

But this is also a future where they can start over.

This is a future where, whatever is happening to them, they can figure it out, can work around it, work _with_ it, even. This is a future where, whatever was done to them, whatever _will be done_ to him, they can recover, can rebuild themselves from the ground up. This is a future where they can fulfill what they came here to do and _help people_. This is a future where they’re _together_ , and they can work everything out, one way or another.

It’s not much better, but it’s something.

Finally, after what seems like centuries and eons and ages, and is definitely too long of a wait to answer, when the others are all radiating tension and Dicker looks oh-so-unruffled, but also maybe like he wants to frown a little or narrow his eyes but _doesn’t_ , Lucius makes up his mind.

“Of course, Sir,” he bites out, and hopes he hasn’t just signed his life away in a way he couldn’t take back.

(Sometimes, he will come to learn, hope gets you nowhere.)

xi. He knows this: the war is over.

The people love them.

xii. For a moment, he doesn’t really understand what he’s looking at.

He was just walking through the bookstore, trying to find something that Honey might like for her birthday, and it managed to catch his eye, with its loud, bright colors in this quiet, muted place.

It’s a comic book.

There’s a man on the cover—a large, blonde man, with a domino mask and black and blue and red splayed out in a familiar design, his fist embedded in the face of a German soldier, with a large onomatopoeia bubble displayed around the soldier.

It’s Bob, in his suit and all his propagandized glory, taking out a Nazi.

Behind him, standing in blue and white and seeming to be partially watching his back and mostly watching in awe, as one might expect from a sidekick, was another man, with pale skin and a sharp jawline.

That—that doesn’t make sense.

He knows the supers—he knows _all_ the supers, has been with them from the beginning, watched as they were _created_ and molded and built up from _nothing_. He knows all the supers, and he does not recognize this one.

Supers were...relatively new. For all that they seemed something out of a modern fairytale, for all that their abilities seemed to be on the far side of impossible, for all the utter horrors they’d seen to and atrocities they’d committed, people hadn’t really started _thinking_ about it yet. (Well, most people. Lucius has. The whole unit has. It’s hard not to, when you’re living it, when you didn’t mean it, when you’re faced with these things every single day for years and years and years.)

There’s a lot of propaganda floating around, yeah, and a lot of media about supers has started circulating in the past few years, but few of them ever invent new heroes to fit their storylines, not really knowing how far they can stretch things from the no-longer-impossible that people have come to grudgingly accept to the blasphemous, and sticking to the safe sides of things so as not to lose potential readers. He’d definitely never seen the two combined—books about real supers stayed about real supers and real supers only—they had enough leeway anyway, what with all their identities being classified.

Then, he sees the ice spiraling from the man’s hands, as white and blue as the man’s suit, and it dawns with a burning in his chest that is maybe rage and maybe shock and maybe embarrassment but is all an old pill to swallow simply bearing a new taste.

That man, Lucius realizes, is supposed to be _him_.

Swallowing hard around that awful feeling, he nudges the comic aside to see the one hiding behind it.

Scott’s on the cover, winds whipping around him, battered children clinging to his shoulders with awe in their eyes and a woman in his arms.

She’s skimpily clad in a skintight dark purple and navy blue outfit that’s little more than a pair of shorts that barely cover her rear and a sleeveless top that leaves her abundant cleavage threatening to spill over even as she has her arms thrown around Scott’s neck.

For another long moment, he stares at it, trying to figure it out, and then he sees the long braids and he’s hit with realization that that’s supposed to be _Anca_.

Anca, in an outfit she’d never be caught _dead_ in. Anca, clinging to Scott like a limpet, as if he’s her savior and she’ll die if he lets go, as if she can’t _control gravity_ and doesn’t make smart remarks about his height every time she sees him. Anca, with exaggerated breasts and hips and none of the muscle she’d put in hard work to earn. Anca, with no glasses and skin three shades lighter and painted as a damsel in distress.

He had seen her break the wrists of soldiers that had gotten too smart-mouthed or too handsy when they were sent into the area to help out. He had seen her bring down _armies_ with nothing more than her _fucking mind_. If anything, _she_ would’ve been carrying _Scott_.

Against his better judgment, he looks at the next one. And the next, and the next.

Gail, with ten working fingers and no scars on her arms. Mihai, with straight, pearly white teeth and face donning only his mask, no facepaint. Lon’Yea, with milky white skin and both eyes and a notable lack of her hijab. Simon, with no tattoos. Santi, face unmarred. Tristan, depicted in such a way that anyone would automatically assume them to be male.

They have _stripped_ his friends of these things—have taken these essential parts of them, just like Dicker did; these things they _earned_ , these things they _chose_ , these things they have _no control_ over, these things they _love_ , they _hate_ , that _make them who they are_ , and these people have just _erased_ them like they're _accessories_ to take on and off, turning them into far-fetched caricatures of themselves, idealized heroes with all of the glamor people in this society apparently want to see and none of the grit and grime they'd _lived_ to be burdened with the title of _hero_.

Flipping through the stack, he just sees more and more and more and it’s all _wrong_ and he _hates it_.

xiii. He knows this: it's been a year since the war.

They have no purpose anymore.

The people hate them.

xiv. Lucius hates Rick Dicker with a passion that outstrips his loathing for quite possibly anyone else he’s ever even heard of, a hatred that’s _palpable_ , perhaps even _impressive_ in its strength.

He’s despised Dicker for _years_ , has wanted to beat his face in since the door to the barracks dorm opened on that fateful night and spit Scott out trailing a hell they didn’t know yet, has wanted to strangle him since he had to watch each and every one of them slowly vanish and come back with vital pieces they couldn’t even identify, couldn’t quite articulate, missing, until he was the only one left, has wanted to bury him in an avalanche and bring the whole agency down with them since the man refused to meet his eyes as he injected liquid ice—not water, never water, he knows water and the difference is _distinct_ , is _visceral_ —into his veins, ignored his pleas to stop, his desperate cries for help, and sat down calmly in front of him with a clipboard afterwards, measuring his pulse and a number of other things that made Lucius flinch with steady fingers, and proceeded to ask him a series of questions about what it felt like to be torn apart from the inside out and reborn into a skin that isn’t his, as if he didn’t _do this to him_.

He has wanted to give this man even a _taste_ of what he did to them, of the nightmare he put them through, since before the worst of it had ever even really _started_ —and that taste was more than he would wish upon anyone else in the entire world.

It seems like some sort of sick, sick poetic justice, then, that it’s Dicker he looks to when everything falls to pieces.

Poetic justice, as in, he had been the one who chose to make a deal with this devil, and he would never now be rid of the consequences, and that only becomes more and more prevalent the greater his hatred for that monster grows.

But civilians do not react well to any sort of _powers_ when they aren't benefiting from them, and sometimes situations have to be swept under the rug, sometimes families have to be relocated, given a new start.

He does not trust Rick Dicker as far as he can throw him, not anymore, but sometimes, he has to.

xv. “Did you know,” she says, words slurring together. “Did you know, that sometimes, they forget my name?”

She smells like cheap whiskey and burnt lavender and something in him cracks a little at her words.

“It’s like, I’m the oldest, and the only girl, and I look nothing like the rest of them, so you think it’d be pretty hard to forget, right? But she still—they still fuck it up. Calls me Dash. Calls me Jack-Jack. Have to think for a moment and remember who they’re talking to. Can’t remember my fucking _name_ ,” she stresses, nearly teetering off the counter where she’s perched, and he takes one step forward, and then another, reaching out and gently prying the bottle from her fingers.

And the saddest part is that he knows exactly what she’s talking about.

He’s seen it happen.

Bob will be getting some work done at home, trying to make up for the days he’s lost, and they’ll be talking, and she’ll walk past a little too fast, accidentally knock over a glass of something, and Bob’ll have to pull the papers away real fast. “ _Careful_ —” he’ll stop, blink, and finish, “Be more careful, kid.”

Or, Helen will be making dinner, and she’ll realize she’s forgotten something in the pantry, but her hands are busy, and when she asks for her to grab it, it’ll come out as, “Da—” even when she’ll be looking right at her. She’ll catch herself, will move on quickly, but not in the right direction, and instead, it'll end up as, “Da—J—whatever your name is, can you get out the oregano?”

And the thing is that they don’t mean it, never follow it up in an intentionally cruel way, try to make light of it, turn it into a joke when they catch it, even (“ _whatever your name is_ ” she laughs lightly, and Lucius wonders how none of them noticed the snap it sent straight down their daughter’s spine every single time).

But he can—he can understand it. He gets why they do it, but he gets that that’s not really enough, either, gets why it could hurt.

(He gets that this is far from the only thing that’s caused this spiral, gets that this was most likely an avalanche coming from a mountain that’s been building up its height for sixteen years now before finally being nudged off the edge, and is worried that this is just the easiest part to latch onto.)

So he sets the bottle down on the table behind him, for now out of her reach, and sets about doing what he does best when it comes to Bob and Helen: damage control.

He wraps his arms around her, slowly, gently, and pulls her into a hug.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs into her hair, and it feels a little like deja vu.

“Am I really that fucking _invisible_?” She whimpers, and he strokes her raven hair in an attempt to calm her down.

“No,” he tells her. “No, you’re not. It’s okay.”

“I’m Violet,” she sobs into his chest, and he hopes to every deity he doesn’t believe in that she won’t remember this pain in the morning. “My name is _Violet_.”

He breathes around the burning in his eyes and keeps stroking her hair, wondering if this is what it’s like to have a daughter, wondering if this is what it’s like to have failed someone, and hoping to god that he never has to find out (knowing that he already has).

“I know, Vi. It’s alright. It’s okay.”

After she’s cried herself to sleep, he carries her to her room, makes sure she’s laying on her side, tucks her in, and puts a large glass of water on her nightstand. Then, he goes back to the kitchen, pours the rest of the bottle down the sink, and throws it away. He moves all of the alcohol one shelf up, and hides it behind all the tea that Helen’s brother’s wife keeps giving them that they never actually drink.

He doesn’t wake up Bob or Helen, because he doesn’t think he can face them right now without something that they’ll all regret happening, and because he knows how little sleep they ever manage to get in the first place.

(He loves Bob and Helen, he does, but he’s known them for a long time, and they all have history, all have demons.

There are two hundred and six bones in the human body and if he went through every one he had to pick with Bob and Helen he’d burn through all of himself and still be left wanting, so he picks his fights carefully, or more often, doesn’t acknowledge them at all.

Maybe this should be one of the ones that he does.

Maybe he’s just a coward.)

He’s quite forgotten his reason for coming over in the first place.

On his way out the door, though, he hears a soft, quick pattering of feet, and turns to see Dash standing in the mouth of the hallway, rubbing his eye.

“Uncle Lucius?” He asks, and he does not follow it up with a question about what he was doing there, only stares at him for a little bit, seemingly contemplating something. “Is Violet okay?” He asks instead, after what must’ve been an eternity to a pre-teen to which the entire world is moving in slow motion already, and his voice comes out as little more than a whisper.

Lucius swallows hard, and wonders where they went wrong with these kids.

“Yeah,” he tells him. “Yeah, she’s okay.”

He hesitates, and then, partly to reassure them both, and partly because after tonight he feels like maybe he should make an effort to say her name a bit more, even when it’s not particularly necessary, he says again, “Violet’s okay.”

He swallows again, and then, “But maybe—maybe it’s not such a bad idea to keep an eye on her,” he tells the blond, who nods gravely, and it should really be funny, kids as young as he is thinking they know how serious situations are, but the thing is he _does_ , and it’s _not_.

Another pause.

“And—Dash,” he thinks maybe he should start using _all_ their names a little more, if only to avoid anything like a repeat of this in the future, or in some futile effort to keep these kids’ thoughts from wandering down paths like that, “maybe—” He hesitates again, swallows one more time, wonders why he’s making this decision, wonders why it was a hard one to come to, “maybe you shouldn’t tell your parents about this.”

Because he’s not an idiot. He’s not. And neither is Dash.

Dash looks like he’s just gotten up, but Lucius has known the kid for as long as he’s been alive, and, admittedly, he’s almost convinced, but not quite.

Dash has been up for hours, probably since before Violet even started drinking, and most likely heard the whole damn thing. (Sometimes, he’s just as good of an actor as his Uncle Rick is. The thought makes Lucius sick.)

Dash just nods again, face oh-so-serious, not a hint of a joke or a lie or uncertainty in him, and something painful tugs in Lucius’ chest when he realizes it.

It occurs to Lucius that, for all that Violet’s trying to keep this family together, she might not even be aware that she’s not the only one.

When he goes, Dash watches him from the window, backlit by the dim kitchen light, and Lucius can still make out the solemn expression on his face.

The Parr kids keep breaking parts of him he didn’t know he had left to give.

**Author's Note:**

> *Please note that I have absolutely no idea how the military works in the slightest, in any country or any era
> 
> **So all these extra characters are technically OCs, but they're all based on other old heroes mentioned in the Incredibles verse, though completely disregarding...well, pretty much everything about them except their powers? whoops
> 
> Like its partner, this whole fic is just... a mess tbh so... sorry about that ig. It feels hella unfinished, but I don't have much more to add, really? So I'm just throwing this out into the void in its as-done-as-it's-going-to-get state, really. Both of these have just been sitting in my drafts and my notebooks for months and it's been bothering me so
> 
> I wrote this mainly bc I got stuck on the fact that the Incredibles is set during the time that it is and the implications of that and was shocked to find that virtually nobody has taken advantage of that yet
> 
> So again, I have a whole (not very coherent or impressive tbh) thing about the Incredibles timeline and how this isn't _technically_ an au, or at least isn't very much of one, but I couldn't fit it in the notes, but if anyone's interested I can post it somewhere.
> 
>   
> [come yell at me on tumblr :)](https://ink-beneath-her-fingernails.tumblr.com/)


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